


The Hunter and the Hunted

by Ellimac



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, F/F, I'm serious about the body horror, The Dark, The Desolation, The Flesh - Freeform, The Hunt, Unhappy Ending, and the major character death, and the unhappy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellimac/pseuds/Ellimac
Summary: Basira's search for Daisy after the apocalypse, as it takes her through various domains of varying danger.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Hunter and the Hunted

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this right after listening to MAG 164, and the rest of it sporadically over the last two weeks while I figured out the ending. Tumblr demanded I go with the sadder ending, so... I'm sorry.

It takes Basira five weeks, two days, and twenty-one hours to find Daisy.

She keeps track of time precariously. There is no day, no night, no need to sleep or eat. All the clocks have stopped, or display nonsensical numbers with no regard to the passage of time. She keeps a crude calendar in her notebook, marking whenever it feels like an hour has passed, and when twenty-four have gone by, she draws a line and starts anew. One week per page. It isn’t ideal, but it’s better than nothing.

The first week is the most difficult. When the world changes, she is already looking for Daisy, but night falls in the middle of the day. Only it isn’t night. It isn’t anything. The sky is an endless void threatening to swallow her if she looks too long, and even the ground itself feels malicious, as if a wrong step could pull her deep within and drown her in mud.

She finds cover. She finds supplies. She takes stock, and comes to the conclusion that, while the world has changed, her mission hasn’t. This is when she starts her calendar, marking that a week has passed. She isn’t sure, but it feels right.

Daisy’s trail is easy to follow. On the one hand, this is good; it means she’ll find her sooner rather than later. On the other, it is not; it means that Daisy either doesn’t care about being found, or doesn’t realize she’s being tracked.

When Basira rests (and she does rest, forcing herself to stop walking for periods of time, ignoring the urgent voice in her brain saying that she is losing time, that Daisy’s trail will fade if she sits idle for too long; she may not need to sleep, but she must remind herself that, at least in some capacity, she is still human), she wonders what she’ll find when she catches up. Will Daisy recognize her? Will she recognize Daisy? She tells herself that it doesn’t matter, quashing down the hurt this causes. She will do what she needs to do. She has her gun, and enough bullets to do the job (but will it even fire in this strange new world?) and a hunting knife as backup (but will it even leave a mark, if she needs to use it?), and she tells herself that the bile rising in her throat is born of determination, nothing more.

She does not allow herself to dwell on the good times. It feels as though they took place a lifetime ago. More than that; they _did_ take place a lifetime ago, or more. To remember Daisy as she was is pointless. It will only cloud her judgment when the time comes. To imagine her as she might be now...

No. That’s even worse. Her heart throbs with a dull pain, at first only when she thinks too deeply about Daisy’s current state, and then, eventually, all the time.

She learns to live with it. Her only other option is to end up like _them_.

She first encounters them six days and two hours into her chase. She’s following Daisy’s trail, and that takes her right into the middle of a… pocket. She doesn’t know how else to describe it. This world is strange, but when she comes across a building that shouldn’t be there, she realizes that she’s found an even stranger one. She opens the door and finds herself faced with a screaming fire. It billows out at her, and if not for a quick reaction, it would have caught her square in the face. As she watches, a figure emerges from the building, screaming just as loud as the fire itself.

Basira stares with mounting dread. Through licks of flame, she can see that instead of a face, this person… this thing… simply has a blackened and sizzling mass. Flesh drips from it as it moves. It raises its near-skeletal hands to its head, and part of the skull simply caves in, giving way to ashes. All logic says that it should be long dead, but it refuses to die, and it won’t stop screaming.

It doesn’t seem to see Basira. It doesn’t notice her reaction, nor her half-hearted attempt to reach out, as if she could possibly help this thing. It doesn’t hear her shout of warning, nor her gasp of horror as it turns, still falling apart, and runs back into the burning building.

She approaches the door on shaky feet. The flames are so bright, and the smoke so thick, that she can barely see inside. What she does see is blood and viscera splattered on the floor, the blood already bubbling and boiling away. Nearby is a corpse, or what should be a corpse, charred to little but bone, and yet she would swear she can hear it moaning in agony. But something else catches her eye, too.

A footprint. A single, bloody footprint, smeared enough that it is barely recognizable. But it is a footprint, and though the blood around it has long since boiled away, this blood has been there long enough to dry.

Daisy has been through here.

Basira looks into the fire, trying to look deeper, to see farther into the building. Do the footsteps continue? Did Daisy go inside? She looks back down at the burning figure near the door. Is its neck broken, or merely contorted from the heat? Did Daisy kill it? How could she possibly have survived this fire?

She doesn’t know how long she stands there staring. The flame hurt her eyes and her face. If she goes around, there is no guarantee she will be able to pick up Daisy’s trail again. But if she goes in, she’ll die.

Or will she? The burning people aren’t dead. She can only see one, but she is sure now that it is still alive, its jaws clacking together in a mockery of a scream. Perhaps, in this new reality, death no longer exists. You can’t feel fear if you’re dead, after all. But ending up like these no-longer-people, these corpses-who-are-not-corpses, would be a fate worse than death.

She retreats from the door and walks to the left. Better to go around than through, and if she loses Daisy’s trail, she’ll pick it up again before long.

But as she walks, the building stretches. It was no wider than twenty feet across, ten feet on either side of the door, but she walks ten feet, then twenty, then thirty. The edge of the building is no closer. She gazes up, and sees what was once no more than three floors now stretches into the sky, the top of it invisible among the clouds. She looks back, and the door is only a few feet away, as if it’s been following her.

So that’s how it is, then.

The flames seem to recede as she approaches, inviting her to come closer. No would-be corpses run out at her this time. When she looks in, the skeletal form by the door is gone, too. But the footprint remains. It’s easier to see inside, now, and she sees another footprint, this one more defined.

Basira wraps her hijab around her mouth and nose and steps inside. The heat hits her like a physical barrier, and she reels back, but steadies herself. Around her, the flames roar, but where she stands is clear of fire. Ahead of her, the fire is a solid wall, but when she steps forward, it parts. Her breathing is shallow and she is already drenched in sweat, or would be if it didn’t evaporate as soon as it hit the air, but her eyes lock onto the footsteps that now make a path through the building. She can get through this.

A voice in the back of her mind says, _That’s because this isn’t your fear. This isn’t for you._

She ignores it. The why and the how don’t matter. All that matters is Daisy.

She doesn’t know how long she’s in the building. She walks in a straight line, though every now and then she has to stop to let a flaming, screaming not-corpse cross her path. They never notice her, and she averts her eyes, afraid of what she might see if she doesn’t. The heat is oppressive, making each step harder than the last, each breath more ragged. She breathes in and feels ashes settle in her lungs; she breathes out and feels what little moisture there is left in her body depleting, breath by breath. Her eyes hurt, her nose hurts, her throat hurts. There isn’t enough left in her to form a thought beyond knowing that she needs to keep moving. If she stops, the fire will take her, and she will become one of those not-corpses, pleading wordlessly for a death that cannot come.

The door appears ahead of her out of nowhere. She takes a step and it simply materializes. Hazy, she stares at it. Its window is broken, leaving shards of blackened glass around its perimeter. On the handle is a smear of blood. She reaches out without thinking, and yells out in pain as the white-hot metal burns her hand. But the door swings open at her touch, and she stumbles out, clutching her wounded hand. As soon as she is outside, the door slams shut, silencing all noise from within.

She forces herself to walk on for five more minutes, leaving the building behind her, before letting herself collapse. Blearily, she pulls out her notebook and marks that one hour has passed.

—

It’s another week before she comes across another of these pockets. By then, the burn on her hand has healed into a mass of scar tissue. She knows this isn’t normal, and tries not to think about it, especially when she seems to see the scars moving out of the corner of her eye.

She hasn’t seen a single living soul since the building, if they even count. She’s beginning to think that everyone else got trapped in one of those pockets. She sees a few of them from a distance: a jagged dome of darkness that pulses like a slow-beating heart; a deep valley that looked, from a distance, like a pit, emanating an endless wail; a huge, murky forest, the crowns of its trees pure white with what Basira quickly realizes must be spiderwebs. All these, she avoids. But when she comes across a valley full of fog and smelling of rot and blood, she knows she has no choice. She’s lost Daisy’s trail, but if Daisy came across this, she would have gone in without thinking.

The valley is steep, and the deeper she goes, the stronger it smells. The grass beneath her feet becomes slick, and when she bends down to squint through the fog, she sees it’s wet with blood. She doesn’t look down after that, not even when she steps on something squishy and nearly slips. She walks more carefully after that. The smell of blood is so strong she can barely breathe, but there is no sound, no indication that anyone else is in this pocket of fear.

There is no end to the valley. She keeps going down and down, and now the ground she walks on is no longer grass, but something softer, something that gives way beneath her feet. Still it slopes beneath her, and she finds each step sinking deeper into the mire. Soon she is wading through it, up to her ankles, each step stirring up new, horrible smells.

When the muck comes up to her knees, something beneath the surface grabs her leg.

She yelps and kicks out, but the thing holds fast and begins to pull downward. The scene plays out behind Basira’s eyes in an instant: it pulls her down, her scream cut short as the swamp closes over her head, and in a moment the surface is undisturbed again, and she is trapped in this horrible valley, unable to die, unable to rise above the surface.

Before the image even plays out, she pulls out her gun and fires once into the slop. Something screams, not a human sound, nor any animal she’s ever heard, and—

The silence is broken by things emerging from the mire all around her. The grip on her ankle is released as that thing, too, rises. She is surrounded before she can react. She can only see those nearest to her through the fog, but that is enough. Twisted bodies, too many limbs or not enough, and the one in front of her reaches out with one of its many hands with far too many fingers…

She can’t afford to waste another bullet. Instead, she hits the thing where its face should be with the butt of her gun, and dodges around it at a run. She doesn’t look back to see if she’s being pursued. It doesn’t matter. She just has to get out of here.

More of those things rise up around her as she runs, some making noises that almost sound like speech. A few of them, obscured by mist, could be mistaken for human at first glance. Basira doesn’t bother with a second.

Soon the muck is up to her waist, and she sees it for what it is now: a soup of body parts, both human and animal, limbs, organs, even what looks to be a whole goat, minus the skin. The smell is strong enough to make her retch if she breathes too deeply, but she can’t stop running. She tries to block it with her hijab, but it hardly makes a difference. And still, the monsters continue to emerge around her.

It’s harder to run now. Unconsciously, her pace slows. She only notices this when one of the monsters (its face jarringly human atop a body that more closely resembles an insect) comes near enough to touch. Its many-jointed fingers brush her shoulder, and she whirls, gun at the ready—only to stop when she sees its expression. There is no malice in it. If anything, it looks… curious.

Its fingers withdraw when she turns, its arm sinking below the viscera again. Basira lowers her gun and turns slowly, looking at the figures surrounding her. Some are more monstrous than others, but they all seem to be looking at her with the same benign curiosity. Perhaps it’s been a while since they saw a human untouched by whatever made them this way.

She starts to move again, walking slowly through the swamp of meat. The creatures follow her, but they all keep their distance, now, shuffling silently around and behind her. Perhaps the one that grabbed her only did so because she touched it first. Perhaps these creatures, like the ones in the burning building, are too busy with their own personal hell to mean her any harm.

She proceeds like that, one cautious hand still on her gun, wading through the mire with her entourage of creatures. After the spider-like one touches her, none of them get within a few feet.

Despite her worries, the swamp never gets higher than her waist. It’s not easy going by any means, but it is easier knowing that she’s unlikely to be attacked again. And sure enough, it isn’t long before the fog parts in front of her to reveal a ledge, about chest high. She needs both hands to lift herself up, which makes her feel vulnerable, but it only lasts as long as it takes to get herself up onto the ledge. She looks back once she’s on solid ground, and can see nothing in the fog. Even as she watches, the fog dissipates, leaving no trace of the creatures, the swamp of viscera, or even the valley itself. The only evidence of it is what’s left all over her clothes.

She can’t stop now. Daisy is still ahead of her. And as she turns back to her path, she can see traces of a trail: a dark brown patch that could be dried blood, a strip of flesh dangling from a blade of grass, and, once she looks further, clear drag marks.

Her heart speeds up. Daisy came this way, and came this way recently. She’s almost there.

—

She finds herself occasionally staring at the tower in the distance, which stares back at her with tangible malice. Elias is watching, she has no doubt. He’s watching everything and everyone, enjoying their pain, their fear. She tries not to dwell on it. If she thinks of him, he’ll know, and she hates the thought of that.

She doesn’t find Daisy after the meat pit, as she’s come to think of it. She comes close, she finds one of the creatures that Daisy dragged out with her, and apparently ate. Basira moves past it, only noting two things: first, that the Hunt must have hold of Daisy more firmly than ever, and second, that the thing is definitely dead. Better off for it, no doubt, but it tells her that death is possible in this new reality. 

It is another week and two days before she encounters another pocket, and this one, she finds, is much easier to go through. She saw it off in the distance, once; a pocket of darkness, like a bubble on the surface of the world, gently pulsing with the beat of her heart. She remembers the basement where they found Maxwell Rayner and wishes for a torch. Or better yet, several torches.

But she got through that, and she will get through this. She reminds herself that, like the last two pockets, this is not for her.

The darkness is total and all-encompassing. If not for the feel of the ground beneath her feet as she walks, she wouldn’t believe she was walking at all. There are sounds, too, coming from all around; people moaning in agony, screaming in fear. And someone, somewhere, is laughing. Basira resolves to stay silent and avoid the laughing person as much as she can.

Something comes close to her once. She can feel it brushing by in the darkness. But though she tenses, she doesn’t make a sound, and whatever it is lets out a sigh and passes her.

Not long after this, the darkness ends, so suddenly that the light of the outside world, dull as it is, makes her cry out and nearly stumble back. But she catches herself and moves forward a few steps, in case something in the dark reaches out to pull her back in.

Nothing does. She takes a moment to reorient herself. It’s not hard, not with the tower looming over her as it constantly does. Daisy is still ahead of her, and by now she must know she’s being followed, if she didn’t already. She’s started leaving clues. Basira doesn’t know if it’s because she wants Basira to find her so she can follow through on her promise, or…

Or perhaps Daisy is leading her on her own hunt. Playing her own game, hunting the hunter.

Basira pushes that thought aside and keeps going.

—

It’s been five weeks, two days, and nineteen hours when she finds the next pocket, and this one is for her.

Most of the people, or things, that she has seen within the pockets seem to have been there from the start. She hasn’t seen anyone else in all the time that she’s been hunting, living or dead. Why she didn’t end up in one from the start is a mystery to her, but now it seems that this was the plan all along. The plan of what, she doesn’t know. It’s not for her to know.

When she comes upon it, she hardly realizes what it is. It doesn’t have a clearly defined boundary like the others, no sudden plunge into darkness, no door, no fog. The only reason she notices at all is a smear of blood, laid out like an invitation at her feet. As soon as she sees it, she knows: if she passes it, she won’t come back out. But if she doesn’t, she will lose Daisy forever.

She draws her gun and steps over the blood.

Nothing feels different, initially. There is the feeling of being watched, but that has been following her all along. The environment doesn’t look different, and when she looks back, she can still see where she came from. That seems to be another strange thing: in all the others, her vision was obscured. Now, she can see clearly in all directions. She can see all the places something could hide. Behind every bush, every tree, every rock, something could be watching her, stalking her…

Off in the distance, a twig snaps. She turns in that direction, gun at the ready. Nothing moves, but something is different. It takes her a moment to realize what it is. There’s a fresh set of scratches on a tree about twenty feet away. Daisy.

Basira approaches the tree with caution, but there is no sign that Daisy is still near it. She must have gone into the nearby forest (and wasn’t there always a forest, just there, off to the left? There must have been; she would have noticed it appearing). Basira touches the scratches, and within the forest, hears another twig snap.

This is a trap. She knows it’s a trap. Daisy knows she’s here, and is luring her deeper into the forest so she can ambush her. Does she remember who she is, or does she only know that she’s being followed? How much of Daisy is left?

She takes a breath to steady herself. This isn’t like the fire, or the swamp, or even the dark. This is different.

A voice in her head, unbidden, says, _Yes. This is worse_.

She ignores it, and walks into the forest. Her knife is heavy on her belt and her gun feels too light in her hands. Will the remaining bullets be enough? Will she even be able to pull the trigger?

Daisy would, if their positions were reversed. But then, that’s why they’re in this situation in the first place.

The trail that Daisy has laid is easy enough to follow. Some of it almost looks accidental, but Basira knows better by now. Every instinct is screaming at her to turn back, that she’s walking into an ambush. She ignores them. She walks slowly, quietly, following the disturbed underbrush and the scratches on the trees. What would Daisy do? She might be less Daisy now, but Basira is still the person who knows her best. If anyone can anticipate what Daisy will do, it’s her.

It’s half knowledge, and half instinct, that she avoids the ambush. She hears the faintest rustle above her, and throws herself to the side just as something huge leaps from the tree and lands exactly where she was a moment ago. She raises her gun. If this isn’t Daisy, she is being hunted and she needs to stop it. And if it is…

But she hesitates before shooting, leaving the creature time to draw itself to its full height. Basira gasps.

It is Daisy. Of course it’s Daisy; she always knew it would be Daisy. But she looks so different, almost unrecognizable. She towers over Basira now, her twisted snarl baring lethal fangs, her hands and feet ending in inch-long claws. Dark hair covers most of her body, and what clothes she was wearing have been worn to tatters. The look in her eyes is animalistic.

But when she growls, it forms a word. “ _Basira_.”

“Daisy,” Basira breathes. “You know why I’m here.”

Daisy laughs. It sounds almost, but not entirely, unlike her old laugh, which stings at Basira’s very core. “But will you be able to do it?”

Basira raises her gun again. Five bullets left. Will that be enough?

“Oh, Basira.” Daisy’s growl is almost a sigh. “You should run.”

Basira doesn’t hesitate. She turns and runs. She can hear Daisy behind her now, bounding on all fours. She could catch her easily, but she’s making a game of this. No, not a game—a hunt.

But Basira _knows_ Daisy. She knows her instincts, her patterns, her weaknesses. She’s known Daisy’s secrets for years, and kept them well enough that even Daisy didn’t know she knew them. So when she hears a change in the movement behind her, she ducks, and Daisy’s attack flies right over her.

Not quite right over. Her back claws catch Basira on her back, tearing through her shirt as easily as if it were water, and catching her skin, too. She cries out, but can immediately tell it’s a superficial wound. She scrambles back to her feet and levels her gun at Daisy, getting a shot in her shoulder before she can react.

It isn’t a fatal shot, but Daisy roars out in pain. “I’ll kill you!”

“Not if I kill you first.” Basira shoots again. With more time to aim, she gets Daisy in the chest. Daisy lunges, barely reacting to the wound, and this time Basira turns to run too late, and Daisy’s claws catch her across the shoulders. This time, ready for the pain, Basira does not cry out. Instead, she stumbles forward, and keeps running.

Three bullets left. Daisy is wounded, but so is she. With each thud of her pounding heart, more blood pours from the wound in her back. The smell of it is everywhere.

The knowledge that she is going to die here hits her like a lightning bolt. Either Daisy will kill her, or she’ll be stuck inside this bubble until something else does.

She can’t let that thought stop her. Behind her, Daisy’s pace increases, slowed only momentarily by the shots. Basira’s back is on fire. Will she be able to aim well enough to shoot again? Can she bring herself to?

Again, the sound behind her changes. This time, she turns and bolts to the right, and Daisy misses her again. But not by much. Basira can feel the hard edge of her claw clipping her elbow. She doesn’t bother to look behind her. Daisy will be after her again too quickly for her to shoot again. Daisy howls in frustration, and Basira hears the shower of leaves and dirt as she changes direction.

Basira’s mind races. Daisy is faster than her, and stronger. It’s down to luck that Basira is even still alive. Her one advantage is knowing her well enough to anticipate her moves, but even that isn’t much. Her options are limited.

As Daisy draws closer, Basira yells, “You don’t want to do this!”

“I am the Hunt,” Daisy growls in return. She doesn’t even sound winded. “I want nothing more.”

“Daisy, it’s me, it’s Basira—”

“Ha! My friend, you’ll say, who helped me in a former life? And who is it who has been hunting me in this one? My _friend_?”

“You asked me to.” Basira’s breath is coming short now. How long have they been running? She dodges to one side again, changing direction, but this time Daisy is ready for it, and catches her right arm, raking her claws up to join the wound in Basira’s shoulder. Her whole back is wet with blood, and now her arm falls uselessly by her side, gun dropping to the ground.

“I asked you to! Yes, I asked you to. But I never said I would make it easy.”

Basira stumbles. Daisy is right on her heels. Tears sting at her eyes, but now is not the time. She is going to die. But—determination surges through her—she is going to take Daisy down with her.

She stops abruptly, and turns to face her, her left hand on the hilt of her knife. Daisy moves like a lion, and in one leap she is on top of her, knocking her down with enough force to knock the wind out of her. Daisy’s face, so familiar and yet so different from what she remembers, is only an inch from hers. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You’ve failed,” Daisy says. She doesn’t sound like Daisy at all. She is… gloating. Daisy never gloated. What has happened to her? “How does that feel, _friend_?”

Basira draws in a gasp of breath. Her body hurts. Her right arm is numb. “I love you,” she breathes.

Whatever answer Daisy was anticipating, it isn’t that. Her sneer disappears, leaving an expression of shock. It’s all that Basira needs. With a yell, she draws her knife and stabs it into Daisy’s neck.

Daisy’s eyes go wide, and she chokes. Droplets of hot blood land on Basira’s face, and Daisy slumps, her whole weight pinning Basira to the ground. Basira’s hand is still on the hilt of the knife, shaking, but firm.

“You love me?” Daisy says. Her voice gurgles, and more blood drips onto the ground beside Basira’s head.

“I never stopped,” Basira whispers. “I’m sorry it had to end like this.”

Daisy twitches. The knife in her neck moves up and down as she tries to swallow. “So am I, Basira.”

She sounds almost like herself. Basira lets go of the knife, and Daisy lets out a sigh. Her eyes go glassy, and her body goes still. Basira lies there, unable to move even if she wanted to, breathing hard. Now there is time for tears, but as she stares into the green canopy, none come.

The weight of Daisy on top of her is comforting, in a strange, twisted way. As if she’s protecting her, keeping her warm and safe as she bleeds out on the forest floor. In the end, they are together. In the end, they are not alone.

She closes her eyes. There are worse ways to die.


End file.
